by C. L. Riley
She isn’t lying.
Without pausing, she describes, in detail, all she remembers about her attack, which is very little, along with everything that followed, right up until she made her escape from Seattle and ended up in Seal’s Cove, with me.
Just when I think she’s finished, she shocks me all over again.
Now I have two men to kill.
Hearing about her fucking uncle and the sick ass games he played with his own niece is enough to send me off the edge.
Somehow, for Trina’s wellbeing, I shove the fury down, someplace deep inside. There it will boil and fester, waiting for when I unleash it on two unsuspecting fuckers who deserve to die slowly and painfully.
It’s obvious now why princess is such a trigger word. That motherfucker’s forced-fantasies no doubt created all kinds of confusion for Trina and her self-image as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, not to mention how he fucked with her self-esteem and identity as Native American. Where she had every right to be proud of her heritage, she spent years feeling ashamed.
Adding to the appalling experiences, she sees herself as weak and compares herself with Olympia Olsen.
What she doesn’t understand is Olympia’s abuse, although beyond horrific, happened when she was an adult and perhaps better equipped to deal with trauma. In addition, Olympia received help immediately following her ordeal. Trina was violated as a child and then again as an adult, and she carried around her abuse the entire time without any professional support.
Her heart is like fragile fucking china, and she’s entrusted it into my care.
I can’t let her down. She’s been let down twice, by men she trusted. There won’t be a third time.
It takes every ounce of my self-control to conquer the overpowering urge to storm from the house and find the fuckers who brutalized the one woman strong enough to pull me from my own personal pit of despair, the only woman I can imagine spending my life with. The woman I want to see wearing my grandmother’s wedding ring and a Property of Rowdy rocker across her back.
Her gaze finds mine, chaining me to her and stopping me from seeking the vengeance I crave. I can see there is more she needs to say. I don’t have to wait long to find out what’s on her mind.
“Don’t ever pity me. I can’t stand the idea of you pitying me.”
My girl doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her. I can relate. My injuries were the source of constant pity. People didn’t know how to handle the new me. I already felt like less of a man. The last thing I wanted or needed was more sympathy.
Right now, I need to be very clear how I express my feelings on this subject. My response will have a significant impact on what happens between us from this point forward.
I shake my head. “Pity? No fucking way. You won’t find any pity coming from me. You’re strong, resilient, victorious, way more than a survivor. I’m not lying when I say you, Trina Templeton, are the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“But, Olympia...” she trails off.
“Yes, Olympia has been through hell. And now she’s highly successful. But what you don’t understand yet is just how powerful and vibrant you are. You’re a brilliant and beautiful woman and nurse. You helped me go from wanting to die to fighting to live. You had every reason to run the other direction, but you stayed and embraced the challenge. You...” For the first time I can remember, I feel myself choke up. “You bring out the best in me. I’m not in love with Olympia. I’m in love with you.”
Badass bikers don’t cry, especially not over bitches, right?
Wrong.
Apparently that statement doesn’t apply to all bikers. Because my eyes are moist, and it has nothing to do with cat allergies or spicy food; it has everything to do with the woman who just bared her secret shame; the woman who trusts me enough to shine a light inside the darkest cavern of her soul, allowing me to share her survival, her struggles, and her success in overcoming events that could have just as easily destroyed her.
She doesn’t say a thing, making me believe, in spite of my honorable intentions, I screwed up my declaration. Worse than the silence, she just stares at me, her expression unreadable.
Maybe tears from a guy turn her off. The truth is I have no idea what she’s thinking. And I don’t get a chance to ask.
The only sound is a sharp intake of breath—her breath, after which she launches herself at me. We tumble back on the bed, and my arms are around her in the same instance her mouth is on mine.
I’m used to kissing a woman and taking the dominant role. Trina is having none of that. Not this time.
There is no question, she needs to be in charge, something I never would have allowed with any other female, but this is my ol’ lady, my queen...my future wife. I’ll do anything for her.
Her kiss is wet, deep, and wild, and I fucking love it.
Giving up control isn’t such a bad thing after all, it seems. Letting her lead will be an adventure to remember.
Her next order confirms it.
“You are going to fuck me hard and fast. I want it from behind. One hand pulling my hair, the other squeezing my hip while you drive into me like a fucking pile driver. Can you handle that Mr. Biker?”
My answer is a growl, right before I lift her up and flip her onto her stomach.
She lets out a little oomph and groans, making my cock thicken. Her back arches and she teases me with her sexy bottom, wiggling it in a tantalizing motion.
I can’t help myself, I give her right butt cheek a swift but stinging slap, testing a theory.
She gasps and rotates her hips, pushing her pelvis into the mattress, seeking pressure.
“You like that, don’t you?” I ask the obvious.
“Yes,” she hisses. “Do it again.”
“You want a spanking?” I confirm. Considering all she’s shared, I need to be cautious.
She rolls her hips. “Spank me hard. Seven swats.”
O-kay. My queen has made her demand. It’s up to me to oblige. I have no idea why seven, but I’ll go with it.
My first swat is another tester, enough to sting but not enough to cause tears.
“Yes,” she groans. “Harder.” She grinds against the bed, more evidence my theory is right. Trina likes a dose of pain with her pleasure.
Slap two leaves a blooming handprint, and a drop of my pre-cum escapes and lands on her leg, marking her as mine.
“You like this too, don’t you?” she asks, her voice husky and deep. “I can’t wait for you to fill me with the rest of your hot cum.”
Holy Hell. My nurse is a naughty, dirty talker.
It appears that illuminating her past unlocked a secret side, a part of herself she was too ashamed to acknowledge, let alone act on before now. She must have been concealing this particular desire for a long time. But I’m no shrink, so I’ll just go with whatever she needs from me.
My dick agrees, responding to the picture her words painted and straining more, desperate to flood her womb. Instead, I bring my palm down for a third, fourth, and fifth time.
She’s gasping, and her ass has bloomed into a hot pink flower, but she continues to rotate her hips, her hands clenching the sheet. “Two more. Finish it,” she pleads.
“Six,” I grind out.
“Fuck. Rowdy.” Her whole body quivers.
“Last one, babe.” Reading her body’s signals, I lay off just a little for the final blow.
The second I’m done, I bend over her bottom and lick the burning skin, massaging and squeezing the back of her thighs at the same time, earning little whimpers of approval.
Eager to visit her tightest entrance with my tongue, I gently part her ass cheeks, using just the tip to tease her puckered hole.
She jerks, but I hold firm, circling the rim before collapsing onto my own stomach and pressing her legs apart for better access.
“Did I say you could lick my pussy?”
I freeze, my tongue poised. “No, my queen.” Instead I bite her inner thigh and wait fo
r her next command.
“I asked you to fuck me hard and fast, from behind.”
As much as I want to taste her, my cock is rejoicing, thrilled to revisit her velvety heat.
Back on my knees, I grab her hips and haul her up. “So you want it rough, right?” Again, I need to stay within her limits.
“Hard. Fast. Like you’ve lost all control...like my pussy is the first you’ve ever had.”
I do exactly what she asked for, twisting a portion of her hair in my fist and grabbing her hip. There is nothing tender about my actions.
She pushes her ass toward me, and I tug her hair harder, forcing her neck to arch.
“Yes,” she hisses, reaching back for my cock.
With quick efficiency, she guides me to her slick entrance, making sure to rub my cock’s head up to her clit before sliding it to her slick entrance, where she stops. I can’t ignore my pride when I feel how wet she is because of me. If she’s not careful with her agonizing torture, I just might combust.
Confirming her demands, I give a final warning, “I’m gonna fuck you now.”
She moans her approval, and I impale her with one deep thrust.
This time I don’t give her even a second to adjust to my size, pounding into her with such force, she loses balance and falls forward onto her elbows. She again fists the sheets, and I tighten my hold on her hair and her hip, continuing with an unrelenting ferocity. She screams my name, urging me to take her harder.
I have no intention of disappointing her.
Releasing her hair, I grasp her other hip to keep her locked in position while I increase my onslaught.
“Yes, yes,” she chants between her gasps, making my cock expand and my spine tingle.
She’s so fucking tight, and her ass is still rosy from the spanking, sending a possessive rush through me. I pull all the way out and slam back in, repeating the motion several times before changing the tempo.
Rotating my hips, I grind harder and press deeper, honing in on the soft, spongy spot high inside her. At the same time, I release my hold on one hip and find her clit, pinching it between my fingers, moving my other hand just enough to reach her tightest hole with my thumb.
“I’m going to come,” she groans.
She’s not the only one.
I press my thumb in deeper and time its movements with my cock and other hand, making her scream as she writhes and shudders.
“You like my thumb in your ass and my cock in your hot cunt?” She’s not the only one who can talk dirty.
“Yes, fuck yes...”
“I’m going to pinch your clit again, and you’re gonna come.”
She whimpers my name.
“I’m going to fill your sweet pussy. You ready?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Come now, come with me.”
My climax is like a missile, preparing for launch. It starts deep inside and surges up, erupting from my cock with an overpowering force that leaves me gasping for breath between my growls and groans.
Trina screams my name, rocking against me, her whole body trembling.
As her channel clamps down, I’m sent reeling into an unparallel place of body-wracking pleasure. My vision tunnels, and white hot, agonizing ecstasy roars through me, firing something like lightening through my system.
I’m still coming when she finally goes limp. I pull out and watch as the final ropes of my cum decorate her ass, adding white to pink, evidence of my ownership, or more accurately hers.
Trina Templeton owns my heart, soul, and definitely my cock.
“Fuck, Trina,” I groan before collapsing across her back, my much larger frame pushing her onto her stomach.
We stay motionless for a long time, both of us sweaty and panting.
When I’m at last able to move, I slide off and onto my side, pulling her against me, positioning her so we can spoon, another first for me—cuddling after sex.
“Fuck, I love you, Trina.” I kiss her shoulder.
“You better,” she whispers.
There’s no fighting it. Sleep drags me away. There I dream about killing the two fuckers who harmed my queen.
Trina
I gaze up at the heavens, visible through the massive skylight above Rowdy’s just-as-massive bed. The cloudless sky showcases the stars as they twinkle and blink, giving me a sense of awe at God’s handiwork.
I shift to the right and attempt to untangle myself from Rowdy’s hold. I’m tempted to stay, but I’ve already committed to getting up, so I move his arm enough to slip from his embrace without disturbing him.
I need to pee, grab a bottle of water, and call Olympia Olsen.
The bathroom break and water are something my body needs. Talking to Olympia Olsen, in the middle of the night, is what my mind is desperate for. Because as safe as I felt sheltered in Rowdy’s tattooed arms, my emotions remain as turbulent as a stormy sea, especially following our recent lovemaking.
Padding from the room, I steal one of Rowdy’s t-Shirts on my way out and swallow a snort.
Yeah right. What we did tonight was definitely not making love. More like an intense, raw, and highly unorthodox, fucking session. I can still feel evidence of his release on my tender butt cheeks. I’ve yet to wash it off and am hesitant to do so. I like the reminder of our shared passion.
What’s really bothering me is how much I enjoyed said fucking session, not just loved...craved, and especially so soon after sharing my secrets.
There is no denying, despite my history, I’ve always had sexual fantasies that could be considered dark and deviant. What does that make me, I wonder?
From what I’ve researched, women can react very differently to their past abuse. Some withdraw from men, like I did after Dr. Martin’s attack, while others end up promiscuous.
I don’t want multiple partners. I simply want to explore my sexuality with Rowdy. I have no interest in anyone else.
Rowdy is the first and only man I’ve ever felt safe enough with to indulge my sexual cravings. And I loved it, all of it, including the spanking; his tongue in my ass; the hair pulling; his cum covering me—all of it. But those unfamiliar experiences are what have me struggling in an all-too-familiar sea-of-shame.
I shouldn’t want to be spanked and fucked until I scream. In fact, as far as I know, no normal woman should want pain with her pleasure. It’s for certain not natural. At least I don’t think it is.
I’m hoping Olympia can shed some light on my confusion. She did, after all, boast about her great listening skills, and I have no doubt she hears all kinds of unorthodox stories at her agency, which makes her the ideal candidate for this discussion, a discussion I’m dreading but am dedicated to having.
Her past is about as colorful as a rainbow on steroids. If anyone understands my dilemma, it will be her. I’m fully prepared to put her promise of unconditional support to the test.
Bladder emptied and a brief shower completed, I quickly locate the Rowdy-provided cell phone in my bedroom. I start to leave, but find myself backtracking for my old phone, the one I haven’t turned on since my escape. I’m not sure yet, but I think I might be ready to play the messages. I’ll decide after I talk to Olympia.
Opening up to Rowdy and experiencing his acceptance and love is exactly what I needed. Now I’m ready to face my past head on, and Olympia Olsen and Wings will surely be part of my recovery process.
Both cell phones in one hand and my water bottle in the other, I plop on the leather sofa.
I take a minute to admire the living room’s decor in the moonlight, paying extra attention to the few paintings I’ve contributed since living here. I place the phones on the end table at the same time Scrooge leaps up next to me. I’m reminded of that first day, when I planted myself in this very same spot. I never imagined then Rowdy and I would become lovers.
During my initial week here, I was positive we’d implode and I’d be sleeping in my Jeep somewhere, waiting for my money to run out and for Dr. Martin to drag me home.
Thank Go
d none of those things came to pass.
Enough stalling! I’ve reminisced enough. If I’m not careful, I’ll talk myself out of calling Olympia, and I’m not sure how long it will take Rowdy to realize I’m no longer curled up beside him, but knowing him, he won’t make it to daylight without noticing my absence.
Afraid he’ll walk out any second, I pick up my work phone and note the time. It’s already approaching 2:00am. But I feel compelled to continue despite the hour.
Before I can change my mind, I hit contacts.
Thankfully, I took the time to add Olympia’s cell number after our first conversation in the hospital, not trusting myself to keep the business card. Of course the card is tucked safely away in my wallet, where it’s been all along, but this will be my first direct call to her.
When I needed a hair stylist, Rowdy connected with Boone, and then with Olympia. It has always been us spending time as couples and communicating through the guys, until this call.
“Hello...Trina?”
She must have my number in her contacts too. I feel less stalker-ish, knowing that.
“I’m sorry for calling this late, but you said if I ever needed to talk.”
“Just a minute. I...”
I hear Boone in the background, asking who it is. She whispers something to him and he grunts.
“Hold on Trina, I’m going to Boone’s office. We’re at the clubhouse.”
By the time she’s back on the line, I feel ridiculous. What was I thinking?
“Don’t you dare feel bad for calling. When I said you could call anytime, I meant anytime.”
“Are you a mind reader too?” I don’t bother hiding my relief.
“No. I just know when we’re ready to talk, we need to talk, no matter the clock says. And in all honesty, I’ve been expecting your call, but I didn’t want to push.”
“Just a minute.” I take another sip of water.
She gives me the time I need to prepare myself.
“O-kay, I’m going to start at the beginning. Would it be all right if I finish before you ask questions or make any comments?”